We set off, casting a final look back at the plane. The Cossacks have helped Rufus tie sheets over the engine-housings, to prevent sand getting in. The machine looks oddly forlorn, sitting there on the salt flats. Then we pass round the edge of a dune, and it disappears.
The camel has a swaying rhythm as it pads over the sand. My hips ache with the side-to-side movement as we gradually climb towards the top of a dune, then down slipping slopes of sand into a deeply shadowed trench. Then up over another dune… I tell myself “I must get used to this: it will be a long journey over this desert.”
But I’m wrong. We reach the crest of a high dune that stands up against the western sky. As before, sand spills steeply down the far side of the dune – but abruptly, it stops. The slope turns to thin, sun-bleached grass. Only a few hundred yards beyond, there are scattered trees among the rich grass of meadows. As we get closer, I realise that the trees are willows. After the endless Siberian forests, and the stark desert, the lushness and beauty of this green place are like a physical shock.
We plod along, passing a wide, deep pool that mirrors the sky; the trailing branches of the willows droop into it, like green waterfalls. Then the trees thin out, and the trail becomes a sandy track fringed by tall bulrushes. Swifts and swallows are flying everywhere, swooping around my ears. The camels lope along lazily, then slow gently to a halt. Bogdan says “Welcome to the valley of the Volga. This is the Buzan River, one of the many streams of the Volga Delta. These are the lotus beds.” We look out across an astonishing sight.
As far as the eye can see, huge pink flowers and glistening leaves float on glass-clear water. Bogdan leads our camels down to rafts moored at the riverside, and gives some coins to four men who stand beside them, holding long poles. I get down from the camel, and Bogdan, my camel and I step onto the first raft, which sways gently in the water. The professor, who has got down awkwardly from his camel, joins us, while Rufus waits to board a second raft. The men on our raft push on their poles. A few moments later, we are floating out among the heady scent of the lotus flowers.
Far below through the water, I see the sandy bed of the river. I’m reminded of when I saw the gun at Tri Tsarevny, but this time there are large dark patches on the pale sand; shadows in the shape of fish. Then I see the fish themselves, huge creatures floating idly among the lotus roots. Bogdan points at them.
“Sturgeons. The origin of Volga caviar.”
The sturgeons move lazily below the flowers in a suspended world. Our raft drifts forward across the blue stream, gently pushing aside the lotus clumps. Now I can see, beyond the sea of pink blooms, the line of the further shore.
Bogdan signals ahead, saying “The island of Astrakhan.” I see red towers, white walls and a cluster of tall, turquoise onion-domes against the blue sky, all reflected in the glassy river. He hums a melody to himself; after a little, he begins to sing, a quiet, low refrain.
Axelson speaks quietly to me, in English.
“Enjoy this moment, Miss Agnes. After what we heard and saw in Yekaterinburg, this beauty can act, just a little, like a medicine, to help heal.”
“I’ll never forget—”
“Of course! It would be wrong to forget. But such horrors as we have witnessed can fester in the heart. And on that subject… these men, they indeed appear to be our friends. All the same, Miss Agnes, I would tread carefully. Watch what you say.”
Bogdan ignores our conversation: he is singing to himself, as if remembering all the Cossack ways of life that are, I guess, under threat from the Bolsheviks. I reply to the professor in a near-whisper. “What do you mean?”
“Bogdan’s song, Miss Agnes – it celebrates Stenka Razin, a Cossack rebel against Tsarist rule. But ironically, today’s Cossacks are fiercely loyal to tradition – and especially, to the Tsar. I advise against saying anything about what we witnessed in Yekaterinburg.”
“Why?”
“If people in Astrakhan find out about the murder of the imperial family, there will be no limit to their anger. We could, literally, create a local civil war in the city.”
I look at him doubtfully.
“The truth must come out—”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Miss Agnes. I sincerely hope the Bolsheviks fall from power. And of course, the world must know about their appalling crime. But not right now – unless you want to cause more deaths, in Astrakhan.”
Not long after crossing the river, we see ahead of us the outskirts of the city. In the fields around us are a scatter of circular tents; outside them are red-robed men among flocks of sheep. “These tents are yurts” says Bodgan. “They are the dwellings of the Kalmyk – nomadic sheep herders; they are Buddhists.” Soon our camels are walking among low, straw-roofed houses, and then we come into a narrow street lined with market stalls. There are rolled Persian carpets, piled high as if they were stacks of logs, and sheepskin rugs hanging on wooden racks. My waddling camel seems bound to sway and crash into one of the stalls, but somehow we weave our way along. I look down from the saddle onto piles of rich fabrics. Bogdan explains.
“These are the markets of the Astrakhan caravanserai; each group of stalls carries different products from different places on the Silk Road; Samarkand, Afghanistan, India and China. But let me show you something else – for your eyes only.”
He calls to Dmitri and Anatoly, who rein in their camels. All of us stop in the very centre of the market. Among bustling crowds, we get down from the camels, and Bogdan shakes hands with a trader among hanging veils of colored silk. All of us follow the trader through into a dark back room.
We’ve walked into an armory. A grim array of revolvers, rifles, knives and bayonets hangs on every wall. Bogdan smiles. “Every stall-holder in Astrakhan trades in weapons – and sells them on to the White Army.”
The professor frowns. “This is risky business…”
Bogdan laughs. “According to the Bolsheviks, this whole marketplace is illegal! Selling a scarf is a crime, the same as selling a gun. So we may as well deal in fighting as well as fashion.” He gestures at the weapon-covered walls. “If the Red Guards come to arrest the merchants of Astrakhan, they will find more resistance than they bargain for.”
We go back out into the market and walk along, leading the camels among clouds of drifting, changing scents; I smell bergamot and attar of roses. Bogdan continues explaining. “This is the perfume bazaar. But even the perfume traders deal in guns these days. Now, here we are – the commodities market, including the traders who buy our salt.” Bogdan hails another stallholder, and a long conversation ensues. Finally, he comes back to us.
“He’s given us a good price for our salt – including accommodation for you all for the night. The best beds in the caravanserai, and at a knock-down price! And in the morning, we will get your aircraft fuel.”
“We can’t thank you enough…”
“Don’t even think about it. And you, Mr du Pavey – I must thank you for the news you told my brothers, about the massacre of the Tsar’s family. It is the greatest tragedy in Russia’s history! Trust me, their blood will be avenged.”
The professor looks at me and rolls his eyes in dismay. But Bogdan is still speaking.
Now, Mr du Pavey! And you too, Professor! Would you join me and my brothers in a nearby bar, to drink a traditional Cossack toast?”